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| - Just this previous week my brother (my newly acquired room mate) and I sat loathsomely about the house pondering what to do with the night and although they do make rubber pants our size we couldn't think of a retailer that would be open at that hour. Anyways we decided to take a stroll to the local purveyor of fine spirits (LCBO) and discuss what meal to eat along the way.
Once on Queen St what we saw would shock and excite us to our darkest dirty pleasure that was born in the rumors of strange arrangement of a meal that was only to be born State side of the border. In the window of the KFC was nothing more than an advertisement promising that which is most sinful, The Double Down. I pulled off and cleaned my monocle, which came off more of me punching my brother in the arm and yelling "holy shit let's eat one!".
I entered the grease shack, that smelt of unclean fryer and mechanically separated animals of many flavours. The decor here is lacking as is any sort of seating. None the less I approached the lovely lady behind the counter and demanded that she fulfill that which is promised in the window, she looked at me like a dog when you talk to it, mouth slightly ajar twisting her head slowly to the right. Figuring we had failure to communicate do to my excited state I said it in plain English "Two double downs my good lady" she said "ok" and then the person in the back yelled out "DOUBLE DOWN SIX MINUTE".
In order to take our minds off this terrible food injustice of waiting my brother and I continued out journey to the LCBO (which just as a side note I like pronouncing Lic-Bo) where we go not but the finest of spirits (read: cheap rum and a bunch of cider, guiness and a bottle something called french kiss), once purchased we practically ran back to the house of sin and again demanded that our promises be fulfilled. This time I was handed a greasy paper bag and sent on my marry way. Once home the double downs were served out plated in a paper bag inside a cardboard box and no garnish what so ever. I took a bite in to my greasy marriage of 2 pieces of breaded and deep fried chicken, microwave bacon, processed cheese and what tastes to be ranch salad dressing, and it was OK at best. My dreams were let down and not gently NAY, crashed to the ground like a nodded out heroin addict. It was salty and greasy and something that I think can only be described and being raped in the mouth by a dirty or farmer. My brother seemed to agree though he ate his with a knife and fork which leads me to believe he is actually my sister. Upon completion of this crime against nature a feeling of general malaise swept over me.
All in all this is like eating a sandwich made of sad... it will hurt your feelings, I was forced to get hammered in order to forget the whole ordeal, yet I still can't wash away the shame.
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